Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Full download And There He Kept Her (Ben Packard 1) 1st Edition Joshua Moehling file pdf all chapter on 2024
Full download And There He Kept Her (Ben Packard 1) 1st Edition Joshua Moehling file pdf all chapter on 2024
https://ebookmass.com/product/and-there-he-kept-her-ben-
packard-1-1st-edition-joshua-moehling-2/
https://ebookmass.com/product/kept-bitten-and-bound-book-3-1st-
edition-amy-pennza/
https://ebookmass.com/product/best-kept-secret-colorado-black-
diamonds-book-1-emily-silver/
https://ebookmass.com/product/speech-craft-1st-edition-by-joshua-
gunn-ebook-pdf/
Pediatric Hand Therapy, 1e 1st Edition Joshua M. Abzug
https://ebookmass.com/product/pediatric-hand-therapy-1e-1st-
edition-joshua-m-abzug/
https://ebookmass.com/product/there-is-nothing-for-you-here-
fiona-hill/
https://ebookmass.com/product/chinese-finance-policy-for-a-new-
era-dexu-he/
https://ebookmass.com/product/he-marshal-and-the-moonshiner-c-m-
wendelboe/
https://ebookmass.com/product/she-he-they-me-for-the-sisters-
misters-and-binary-resisters-1st-edition-robyn-ryle/
Copyright © 2022 by Joshua Moehling
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover image © Gabriela Alejandra Rosell/Arcangel Images
Internal design by Holli Roach/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered
trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information
storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing
from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are
used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are
trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their
respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product
or vendor in this book.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Moehling, Joshua, author.
Title: And there he kept her / Joshua Moehling.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021023658 (print) | LCCN 2021023659 (ebook) |
(hardcover) | (epub)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery
fiction. |
Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3613.O3344 A85 2022 (print) | LCC
PS3613.O3344
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023658
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023659
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Chris
Chapter One
4:30 a.m.
Rain lashed the boy as he ran from his car back to the old man’s
house. It was cold enough that he could see his breath. Water
dripped from the ends of his shaggy hair, ran down his scalp and
under his shirt. At least the clouds had hidden the moon. The news
had called it a supermoon. All night it had followed everywhere he
went, an ivory face watching him, reading his mind.
The road was gravel and getting muddier by the minute. Jesse
tried running along the edge, but the ground was soft and soon his
feet were as wet as his hooded sweatshirt.
On his left, houses faced the lake. He ran by a mailbox that said
MILLER in faded letters and then by another mailbox that said
MADIS N, this one pitched forward with its door hanging open like it
was about to be sick. He stopped in front of the small gray house set
back from the road and realized he was looking right through a hole
where the door should have been and out the other side at the
water beyond. He looked back at the MILLER house and noticed it
was missing most of its roof and all of its windows.
Jesse ran on, already wet to the skin. He turned off the road and
followed two muddy ruts past a stand-alone garage. The house
ahead of him was a dark-brown rectangle without a straight line or a
sharp corner. A wooden staircase went up the front to a sliding glass
door and small windows with the blinds drawn.
Jesse stopped to catch his breath. In the dark, the house looked
like it had climbed out of the mud or was sinking back into it. No
part of him wanted to be here, to have to pay back his debt like this.
“In and out. Get it over with,” he muttered.
He bypassed the staircase, pulling up his hood as he skidded down
a muddy set of uneven steps alongside the house.
The lower level of the house was cement block. A narrow yard
widened in the direction of rusty metal chairs overturned around a
fire pit before gradually descending to the lake. The house had
another deck on the back. Underneath were the remnants of a
depleted woodpile and a battered storm door with access to the
basement.
Jesse pulled open the storm door and set the clip that propped it
open. The back door had individual glass panes set in a crosshatch
pattern. Jesse hit the window closest to the dead bolt with his
elbow. The sound of breaking glass made his breath catch in his
throat. He counted to ten, waiting for lights to come on. Nothing
happened. He reached inside, undid the bolt and the twist lock on
the doorknob. Thunder rolled overhead as he pushed the door open
and stepped over the broken glass.
It was pitch-dark inside. A clock radio on a shelf flashed red
numbers 12:00…12:00…12:00. It smelled like cigarettes and
garbage and wet, rotten things. Jesse took a penlight from his back
pocket and used it to sweep over a workbench on his left littered
with scattered tools and boxes of nails and spools of wire and plastic
grocery bags. A telephone with a tortured, twisted cord hung on the
wall. On his right an old refrigerator droned. He pulled open the door
hard enough to make the beer cans inside dance on their wire racks.
The light reached all but the basement’s darkest corners. He left the
door open.
Shelves made from concrete blocks and long sagging planks split
the room in half lengthwise. In front of the shelves he saw a rocking
chair with cracked leather on the seat and on the back. A sawed-off
section of tree trunk was being used as a side table. He saw an
enormous ceramic ashtray filled with cigarette butts and a garbage
can overflowing with beer cans and crushed cigarette packs and
boxes from microwave meals. On the floor behind the chair, a damp
cardboard box had split its seams and let slide an avalanche of
magazines. Nearly nude women stared up from the covers. Jesse
picked up one closest to his foot—a moldy Penthouse from August
1981. More than twenty years before he was born.
He circled behind the shelves, past a wall-mounted sink and an
open toilet in one corner. The other corner of the basement was built
out into a small room with a metal door. It could have been for
storage, but his gut told him it was something else. Jesse shivered at
the threshold, his skin clammy and prickling with a million hairs. He
made a sideways fist around the door’s sliding bolt and pulled it
backward, stepping out of the way as the heavy door swung open
on silent hinges.
He thumbed the penlight again. He wasn’t sure but he thought the
walls were painted…pink. The color had peeled away in places,
leaving discolored spots that looked like scabs. He saw a thin
mattress covered in dark stains on a metal frame. A heavy chain
hung limply through a steel ring bolted on the wall at the head of
the bed.
Nothing about the scene in front of him made sense. He wasn’t
sure what he was looking at, but he knew the last thing he’d ever
want was to be left alone in this room, in the dark, with the door
shut. He blindly reached for the inside door handle to pull it shut
again and found there wasn’t one. He shined the penlight on it just
to make sure.
This was a prison cell of some kind. A cage. How else to explain a
door with no handle, no way to get out from the inside?
He shined the weak penlight across the blistered pink walls again.
He felt like he was staring into the mouth of something that wanted
to swallow him. When he killed the light, the darkness inside seemed
to go down and down to a place that had never known the sun.
Behind him, the furnace made a loud ticking sound, then
whoomped to life. Jesse turned away and shook off the bad
thoughts. He stuck the light in his pocket and headed for the stairs
that went up to the main floor. At the bottom, he stared at the
closed door above him. He’d been told the old man would be drunk,
at least. Passed out, if Jesse was lucky.
He labored up the first three steps, pausing on each one to talk
himself out of turning around and making a run for it.
He turned one last time toward the dark room in the corner and
thought about the stained mattress and the door with no handle.
Someone stepped on the broken glass by the basement door.
Jesse crouched and froze like a rabbit with no cover. The
refrigerator door was still open, spilling light into the room. Behind it
he saw a dark silhouette through the window in the basement door.
The shape paused with one foot on the broken glass, then took
another step into the room.
Jenny.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jesse hissed. He took out the
penlight and flashed it at her so she could see where he was
standing against the wall on the stairs.
“I got worried,” she whispered.
Jenny was much less wet than Jesse was, thanks to the oversize
letter jacket with sleeves that went down past her fingertips and
made her look like she had no shoulders. In the dark he couldn’t see
her freckles, or her green eyes, or the eye tooth with the twist to it,
the imperfection that made every one of her smiles perfect.
“Where’s the car?”
“I moved it a little closer. I have the keys.”
She came over and stood by his side at the bottom of the stairs.
They both looked up at the door overhead. “We shouldn’t be here,”
she said.
“I don’t have any choice. He’s threatening my family.”
“We can figure out something else.”
“No, we can’t. He doesn’t want money. It’s this or something bad
happens to my sister.”
“Jesse, come on. He’s messing with you. If you go back and say—”
The floor creaked over their heads.
They stared at each other, wide-eyed, frozen. One second passed.
Another. There was only the sound of the furnace blower and the
drum of the rain, coming down hard again at the open basement
door.
Jenny put a hand on Jesse’s arm and eased him a step backward.
The door at the top of the stairs crashed inward with enough force
that it hit the wall and tried to bang shut again. The double-barreled
shotgun leveled down at them kept it from closing all the way.
Jenny screamed and ducked behind Jesse. Jesse raised his hands
in a pleading gesture. He waved the penlight at the fat, naked man
standing above them with the shotgun and an oxygen mask over his
mouth.
“Hold on, hold on! We made a mistake. We were just leaving,”
Jesse pleaded. He felt Jenny’s body small and hard against his back,
her hand tight around his arm.
The shotgun boomed like the end of the world. The light went out
and fell from Jesse’s hand. Jenny screamed again when Jesse
crumpled without a sound, all his weight falling back against her.
They went backward down the steps, Jesse on top of her. Jenny hit
her head on the concrete with the bright crack of a glass jar
breaking.
The fat, naked man stepped down through the cloud of burning
gunpowder and fired the second barrel.
Chapter Two
7:00 a.m.
The call about the bear came over the radio as Ben Packard was on
his way to see the sheriff. He listened as dispatch directed it to
another deputy on duty. “Caller says she and her husband were
walking their dog when a large black bear came out of the trees and
charged their animal. Her husband grabbed the bear around the
neck to make it let go of the dog. The husband has a bite or a
scratch on his belly. He’s bleeding but not seriously wounded.”
Packard picked up the mic. “This is 217.”
Dispatch came back. “Go ahead, 217.”
“I’m 10–8. I can take the bear.”
“You’re not on the schedule, 217.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m suited up and nearby. Let me take it.”
“Copy, 217.”
The bear was gone by the time Packard arrived at the address.
The house was a boxy, manufactured home on a grassy lot with a
ring of ornamental grass surrounding a flagpole. Packard stood with
an elderly man and his wife in a kitchen that smelled like lemon dish
soap and coffee, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. The old man
had taken his shirt off and was holding a wet paper towel to his
wound.
The wife looked in the fridge and asked Packard, “Can I make you
a breakfast sandwich? Eggs and bacon on a biscuit. I could wrap it
up and you could take it with.”
Packard said, “No thank you. That’s very kind of you to offer.”
“You can make me a breakfast sandwich,” the old man said.
“Hush. You’ll get your sandwich after the ambulance looks at you.”
“They better not think they’re taking me to the hospital.” The old
man pulled the pink paper towel away from his sunken chest to look,
then put it back. “There’s nothing wrong with me. They’ll do a bunch
of tests and send in three doctors to ask me questions so each one
can bill me. That’s how they fund Obamacare. Charging guys like me
three times.”
Packard hmmed, trying to sound sympathetic. “How’s your dog?”
The wife turned from the fridge, put the tips of her fingers over
her mouth, and shook her head. The old man stared out the window
over the sink and kept blinking.
“I’m sorry,” Packard said. “I know how hard it is to lose your dog.”
After that, the wife continued her verbal inventory of the fridge. He
politely declined a slice of pie, a piece of fruit, and a cup of coffee to
go—she had real cream if that’s how he took it.
When the EMTs arrived, Packard excused himself and left to find
the bear. He drove slowly with the window down, watching the trees
and the ditches for the animal. There had been a full moon the night
before, followed by a fair amount of rain. The bear’s tracks were
easy to follow in the soft ground on either side of the road.
A half mile later—thin, shrubby trees on one side, small homes
spread far apart on the other—he came upon two men standing at
the end of a driveway. One had a bloody rag wrapped around a hand
he was holding against his chest. A blue pickup was backed into the
driveway next to a chop saw and a pair of sawhorses set up outside
a partially sided garage.
“Is that from the bear or the saw?” Packard asked as he rolled to a
stop.
“Bear,” the bleeding guy said. “We were just getting started. I was
up on the ladder when the bear come across the road. I yelled but
Jim was running the saw and had his ear protection on. I came
down and tried to chase the bear away. Got too close and got raked
across the back of my hand.”
“Where did the bear go?”
“It’s in the garage,” said Jim.
Packard could see a boat on a trailer, a four-wheeler, and a riding
mower packed into the two-car garage. “What’s in there that a bear
would want?”
“Fifty-pound bags of dog food and birdseed.”
Packard parked the county SUV. There was no chance of making it
to the sheriff’s house by 7:00 a.m. He texted the sheriff’s wife to let
her know he was running late, then asked dispatch to have the
ambulance at the old man’s house sent to his current location when
they were done. He had the number for the county conservation
officer in his phone. He called her to confirm what he should do
about the bear.
“Any idea if it’s a male or female?” Theresa Whitaker asked.
“Haven’t got that close yet,” Packard said, keeping an eye on the
garage, watching for any sign of movement.
“Cubs?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“You have to put it down,” Theresa told him. “It’s attacked two
people. I’ll call the university and have someone come pick up the
carcass. They’ll test it and see if they can find a reason for the
aggressiveness.”
Packard gave her the address and then got out of the vehicle,
taking the twelve-gauge shotgun from the rack behind his seat. He
asked the men if there was anyone else on the property. Both shook
their heads. Packard told them to stay where they were. “Where’s
the dog food?”
“Back right, behind the boat,” Jim said.
“Is there a garage door opener in that truck?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s get it.”
The guy with the bloody hand followed Packard to the truck in the
driveway and unclipped the opener from the visor. Packard asked
him to shut the garage door once he was inside.
“Try not to shoot my boat,” the guy said.
Packard approached the open garage with the shotgun raised. He
stepped inside, nodded back at the man behind him, and waited as
the door lowered. In twelve years as a police officer in Minneapolis,
he’d fired his service weapon once. In the last eighteen months with
the sheriff’s department in Sandy Lake, he’d already shot two deer
and a moose, all mortally wounded after being struck by cars. A bear
was another first.
The weak light on the overhead garage door unit stayed lit.
Packard hugged the wall to his left, skirting the four-wheeler and the
riding mower, since he didn’t know exactly where the bear was. The
trailered fishing boat was a red Lund with a 60-horse Johnson tilted
over the stern.
He could hear the sounds of plastic being dragged and the crunch
of dry dog food. Near the back wall, he got his first glimpse of the
bear—its snout buried in a torn bag—pinned in the far corner by the
boat’s motor. Packard pegged its weight somewhere north of three
hundred pounds. Its fur was deeply black and glossy. It smelled
musky.
As soon as the bear realized he was there, it rose up on its hind
legs, taller than Packard, who was six four. Packard kept the gun up
but paused to marvel at the size of the animal. It moved its pale
snout this way and that, sniffing the air. Nothing in its shiny black
eyes gave any hint of what it was thinking. In such an enclosed
space, they could have been in an interrogation room back at the
station. Packard had a ridiculous urge to try to negotiate a deal with
the bear. Let it off with a warning if it promised not to attack little
dogs or cranky old men again.
The bear dropped its front paws on the motor’s lower unit, hard
enough to bounce the front end of the trailer, then rose up tall
again.
Packard took two quick steps forward and pulled the trigger.
The twelve gauge thundered. The bear curled like a question mark,
then collapsed, boneless, to the floor. Packard waited for a few
seconds, then hit a button on the back wall to raise the garage door.
Daylight raced across the floor like a sunrise at high speed. He
squatted next to the dead bear, his ears ringing. The animal already
looked diminished in death. Packard put his hand on top of its head.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
***
Packard was hours late by the time he turned into the sheriff’s
driveway. A decorative split-rail fence ran a short way on either side,
then ended abruptly, keeping nothing in or out. The house was a
brick rambler with green shutters that backed up against acres of
thick woods five miles outside of town.
Marilyn Shaw answered the door. Early sixties. Hair dyed red with
gray roots. Wearing blue slacks and a cardigan sweater over a green
shirt. She had a dish towel over one shoulder that she used to finish
drying her hands before she took Packard’s between hers and stood
on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You get taller and more handsome
every time I see you.”
Packard towered over her. He had dark hair that had started to
recede at the temples in his twenties, then decided to hold its
ground, leaving him with a slightly irregular hairline in the front. He
kept it short, just this side of a military cut. He wore a trimmed
beard almost year-round now that beards on men were the style
again. Eyes blue or gray, depending on the light. Women were
drawn to the size and shape of him. Men were intimidated by it. He
was an imposing figure in uniform, even the brown one worn by the
sheriff’s department.
Packard followed Marilyn inside. “How’s he feeling?” he asked,
keeping his voice low.
Marilyn shrugged a bit and waved her flat hand side to side.
Packard nodded and followed her to the kitchen.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“If it’s not any trouble,” Packard said. Waiting with the old man and
his wife at the scene of the bear attack had taught him it was easier
to accept the first offer than decline ten more.
“No trouble at all. Go on in. He’s watching TV.”
The family room was on the back of the house. The Shaws’ decor
was classic country. Varnished beadboard. A wallpaper border of
chickens and checkerboard hearts that circled the ceiling. The family
room was heavily carpeted, with bookshelves and an overstuffed
sectional and framed wildlife prints. Scented candles in glass jars
perfumed the air. Packard had to duck to avoid hitting a low
bulkhead. Stan was lying back in a recliner, television remote on his
belly, looking drowsy. He slowly turned his head. When he saw
Packard, his face lit up. He struggled for a moment to right himself
in the recliner. “Hey, you giant sonofabitch.”
“Hey, yourself.”
The sheriff had been a walking bull of a man. Only five foot nine
but broad shouldered and wide through the chest, shaped like a
potato on toothpick legs. Before the chemo, he had thick dark hair,
gray just over the ears, that he kept swept back with pomade in a
tamed pompadour. He was a foul-mouthed bullshit artist with men, a
gentleman to the ladies, and a hard-ass on criminals. He and Marilyn
taught Sunday school and marriage preparation classes at the
Catholic church. The people of Sandy Lake loved him. He could have
run for sheriff and won, uncontested or not, until the sun burned
out.
Stan sat up in the recliner, a blanket over his legs. He looked more
diminished every time Packard came by. A February snowman in
March. His hair had come back thin and white. His scalp had spots
and odd scaly patches crusted with blood.
Packard took a seat on the end of the sectional. A bass fishing
show was on the flat-screen TV in front of them.
“You just missed that guy in the orange hat pull up a seven-
pounder,” Stan said.
“Where they at?”
“Uh… Hell, I don’t know. I thought it was Minnesota. Could be
anywhere.”
They watched TV for a couple of minutes; then Stan pointed the
remote at the TV, turned down the volume, and asked what was
new.
Packard told him about the budget review with the city council.
They were underspent in overtime and fuel costs. “Warmer temps
forced the ice fishing festival to be canceled, which helped keep
overtime down. We’ve been so fiscally responsible I thought it was a
good time to pitch the idea of hiring two new deputies. I assume
they’ll approve only one. You all right with that?”
Stan shrugged. “You’re the one who has to be all right with it,” he
said.
Packard had been hired by Stan Shaw eighteen months earlier as
an investigator for the Sandy Lake County Sheriff’s Department, but
for the last four months he’d been serving as acting sheriff, covering
as many of Stan’s duties as possible while the sheriff went through a
second round of treatment for colon cancer.
Shaw’s decision to appoint Packard came as a surprise to the
county board of directors. Off the record, Shaw had told them his
deputy with the most seniority was six months from retirement and
didn’t want the job. The one with the second most seniority wasn’t
fit to plan the holiday party let alone run the whole department.
Shaw liked Packard for the job because he worked hard and came
with no baggage. The sheriff, or the acting sheriff, had to be
unpopular at times. Packard had no alliances, no grudges, no debts.
He hardly knew anyone. Shaw told the board its options were
Packard or no acting sheriff at all.
The other investigator in the department, and Packard’s closest ally
at work, was Detective Jill Thielen. She was one who told Packard
about the other deputies, all of them male, claiming it wasn’t fair the
single guy who worked all the time got the acting sheriff job. They
couldn’t be expected to put in the same hours he did.
“Congratulations,” Thielen told them. “Now you know how every
working mother feels.”
That shut ’em up.
Marilyn came in with his coffee. Stan said, “Sweetheart, I just
thought of another positive thing about colon cancer. This guy has to
review the budget with the board. Not me.”
Packard smiled, then tried to swallow it when Marilyn tsked and
shook her head. “We heard you respond to the bear call this
morning on the scanner,” she said, changing the subject.
“Yeah, damn. I forgot to ask about the bear,” Stan said.
Packard told them about the old man with the dog and the other
guy with the bloody hand. “I cornered the bear in the guy’s garage
and shot it,” he said, sipping his coffee.
“What did you use?” Stan asked.
“Twelve gauge.”
Stan nodded his approval.
“What I want to know is why you’re in uniform and responding to
calls on your day off. I heard that on the radio, too,” Marilyn said.
“I was coming here so I thought I’d be ready just in case.”
“Benjamin, someone else could have responded to the bear. You
need to take time off. You can’t work seven days a week.”
Oh, but he could. Not all of the work was as exciting as coming
face-to-face with a seven-foot black bear, but it was still work. It
gave him a sense of purpose. The things he did in his time off—
working out and remodeling the house he’d bought—were solitary
activities. Too much time alone gave him too much time to ponder
whether moving to Sandy Lake after Marcus was killed had been the
right decision or not.
“You’ll never meet someone if you don’t take off the uniform and
get to know people socially,” Marilyn said.
By meet someone she didn’t mean friends—not that he had a lot of
those either. She meant romantically. Packard shifted nervously in his
seat. Stan did the same, but probably because of the cancer.
“Marilyn, don’t pester the man. He’s doing his job and my job.
That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“All I’m saying—”
“I hear you, Marilyn,” Packard interrupted, smiling. “I’ll work on it.”
He changed the subject by asking how her seedlings were doing.
Marilyn was a master gardener who could put dirt in a shoe and
grow a foot. She asked him if he’d started swimming yet.
“A week ago,” he said.
“What’s the water temperature?” Stan asked.
“Above forty-five degrees. That’s the magic number.”
Marilyn crossed her arms, grabbed her elbows, and shivered.
“Mother Mary and Joseph. I can’t even imagine. You must be blue as
a berry coming out of that water.”
“I wear a wet suit. It keeps a layer of body-temperature water next
to your skin. Once you get going, you can stay warm for twenty
minutes or so.”
“Benjamin, that sounds perfectly dreadful to me.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
tiehensä, ihmetteli hän, miksi Etelkan silmät täyttyivät kyynelillä, kun
hän kuuli poikansa osaksi tulleesta odottamattomasta kunniasta.
Etelka oli iloinen, että András sattui olemaan poissa kotoa. Hän oli
ratsastanut päivän koittaessa Zárdaan, ja äiti halusi puristaa
poikansa lujasti syliinsä silloin kun hän ilmoittaisi pojalleen nuo
suuret uutiset — tuon hänen mielettömimpien toivojensa
toteutumisen.
»András, seuratkoon siitä sitten joko hyvää tahi pahaa, ovat toivosi
nyt kumminkin toteutuneet. Kreivi on pyytänyt sinua tulemaan
kartanoon, että voisit kunnioittaa naista, josta on tuleva puolisosi».
JALOSUKUINEN NEITO.
Aamu oli yhtä levoton kuin yökin, sillä suurimman osan siitä olivat
Bideskuty ja kreivitär Irma valvoneet ajatellen, mitä seuraava
tapahtumista rikas päivä toisi mukanaan.
Silloin Jánko avasi sen, ja aivan hänen takanaan seisoi tuo pitkä
talonpoikaiskosija maalauksellisessa komeassa kansallispuvussaan
näkyen selvästi tammioven tummaa taustaa vastaan. Hänen
tavatonta pituuttaan, leveitä voimakkaita hartioitaan ja hänen
olemuksensa arvokkaisuutta näyttivät vielä lisäävän tuo suuri
lammasnahkaviitta, jonka Etelka oli koruompeluksin ja merkein
kaunisti koristellut, ja joka ulottui hänen olkapäitään nilkkoihin asti,
suurilla hopeasoljilla kaunistettu leveä vyö, valkoiset leveät
pellavahihat ja housut, jotka olivat oikeat erikoisen hienouden ja
hienon koruompeluksen mestariteokset. Hänen kasvonsa olivat
hyvin kalpeat ja hänen tummat, tuliset ja magnetisoivat silmänsä
tutkivat heti huoneen jokaisen kolkan, kunnes ne huomasivat tuon
ikkunan vieressä istuvan olennon. Hän näytti olevan aivan
huumautunut, kun hän lumottuna käveli huoneeseen ja kumartui
suutelemaan kreivitär Irman kättä jonka tämä armollisesti oli
alentunut ojentamaan hänelle.
UNELMA.
Etelka tiesi, ettei hän saisi nähdä poikaansa sinä iltana, mutta
huolimatta siitä ei hän voinut nukkua, vaan istui ikkunan luona
ristissä käsin ja katseli levottomasti tasangolle. Kun ensimmäiset
kultaiset juovat rikkoivat taivaan pimeyden, kuuli hän Csillagin tutun
kavioiden kapseen. Silloin sammutti hän kynttilät ollen tyytyväinen,
että hänen poikansa oli turvassa, ja tietäen hyvin, että András halusi
nyt olla yksinään. Hän kuunteli poikansa askelia, jotka olivat kevyet
ja joustavat, ja katseli pihalle, kun András kävellen suorana vei
Csillagin talliin. Mennessään puutarhan poikki, pysähtyi hän jälleen
tuon rakastamansa ruusupuun luo, jonka viheriöiden oksien välistä
näkyi yksi ainoa punainen nuppu. Etelka muisti nyt, että hänkin
aikaisemmin päivällä oli huomannut tuon aukeamaisillaan olevan
kukan, jonka András nyt nopeasti ja riemuiten taittoi vieden sen
mukanaan huoneeseensa.
XXIII
Kreivitär Irma oli kuullut nuo sanat ja hetki oli tuntunut hänestä
sanomattoman katkeralta. Hän ei ollut kumminkaan papin
arvokkaisuuden vuoksi voinut moittia tätä hävittömästä puheesta.
Puhua nyt »suuresta onnesta» silloin kun vanhempain sydän oli
murtua häpeästä ja katumuksesta, ja lörpötellä »arvokkaasta
rakkaudesta» silloin kun tytön äiti vaivasi aivojaan, miten hän
parhaiten voisi nöyryyttää tuon »todellakin hyvän miehen»
kaikenlaisilla halveksimisilla.